Bad Romance
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: Before Christine ever came along, there was a Gypsy girl named Ravyn. A sweet, fiery girl who wormed her way into Erik's heart despite his dislike of her kind, a friend who was always there for comfort and playful banter. They were two of a kind, a pair of jokers, who seemed destined to be friends forever... but then came Christine. Rated just to be safe. NOT E/C, Kay/Broadway base
1. Senna

The months following France's defeat at the hands of Prussia were difficult for all of Paris's citizens, hardest for those who were set apart from most for they'd be targeted as spies. Just another reason for the mysterious architect who haunted the incomplete Opera from dawn till well after midnight to remain scarce and unseen by human eyes; he loathed human affairs and their senseless destructive wars. The Gypsies that had once frequently performed on the streets for spare coins were now a much rarer sight, donning cloaks and disguises to blend in with everyone else. Times were especially hard for them, the nomadic people remaining on the outskirts of society would undoubtedly be shot as spies despite that they owed their loyalties to no one but their tribe. Precious little concerning them and their wretched kind mattered to the black-clad figure that hid in the belly of the Opera, he'd developed a strong dislike of them a long time ago. It would have stayed that way if not for one night…

He felt the desperate need for some fresh air despite the shells whining through the air and the bitterly cold weather, soundlessly pacing the dark Parisian streets, deserted at such a late hour save for a soldier here or a prostitute there. A sudden commotion in an alley caught his attention, his curiosity getting the better of him and he made his way to where the sounds had come from. A couple of _gendarmes_ stood wrestling with someone, whoever it was putting up a good fight, he was about to turn and leave thinking it was only a suspected spy they had until one of the officers spoke.

"C'mon, darling," he muttered, "It'll be quick, you might even enjoy it, then we'll let you go. Simple as that."

"Like hell," their captive snapped, the other officer twisting, allowing the watcher to see it was a girl they held, "I'd rather rot in the Bastille!"

"That can be arranged," the first remarked slapping her face, "After we've had a bit of fun."

"I think not, _messieurs_," a voice came from the entrance, "Release the girl and you may yet walk away."

The girl took advantage of the distraction, kicking the one who held her in his most sensitive parts and elbowing him in the abdomen as he doubled over, his partner turning with his pistol at the ready. A rope appeared around his neck, a quick jerk and he fell to the ground before he could fire his weapon, the second officer seeing this and clambering to his feet drawing his own weapon. The mysterious figure that had come upon all this, slammed him against the wall, hands coming up to grasp the man's head before giving it a sharp twist. The officer fell to join his partner on the ground, her dark savior bending down to retrieve the rope he'd used to dispose of the first with a flick of his wrist.

"You didn't have to kill them," she remarked.

"Let them live to do some other poor girl harm?" he glanced at her over his broad shoulder, "I think not."

His voice washed over her, stunning her by its beauty, it'd been the very purity of that voice that had prevented the _gendarmes_ from attacking him as well, leaving them instead in a stunned silence. It had been distorted by what she felt must have been a barely contained indignation, but even then the beauty of it was there, now it was soft and soothing, helping to calm her racing heart.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"No," she replied, "Thank you for saving me."

He'd been impressed by her boldness, thinking on her feet and taking advantage of the interruption to defend herself, she was clearly no prostitute but she was also no proper lady. She was a girl used to the tough life on the streets, he wondered briefly about her place in this cruel world until he caught a glint of gold in her left ear as he was looking her over.

"Gypsy…!" he growled in so feral a tone all trace of beauty was gone from his heavenly voice.

"What of it?" she returned, her hand automatically coming up to touch the gold hoop in her left ear, "What have we ever done to you?"

"Your wretched kind," he spat, "locked me in a cage. All I wanted was some food, I was starving, and they threw me in a cage!"

She stood in stunned silence, golden eyes glaring at her from the darkness, she could see the black clad form against the white snow, shaking with barely contained rage.

"What have _I _ever done to you?" she whispered, not expecting him hear her.

He stood staring at her, hate burning in his eyes as memories of his years among her heathen race raced through his mind, but that question stuck in his head even as he stared her down, drawn to his full height, his most fearsome glare distorting already deformed features hidden beneath his mask. She shook, not from the cold he knew, but from a healthy dose of fear instilled in her by the menacing form before her, but she did not run screaming into the night as he silently willed her. She faced her fear head on, refusing to run from it, but why? She had jut witnessed him kill two people, so surely she realized what he was capable of, realized he could kill her without a second thought or remorse, perhaps she assumed she was safe from his wrath since he had just saved her. Could he kill her? No, Romani though she was, he had never killed a woman and he wasn't about to start, he may be a monster but he considered himself better than the two brutes, charged with protecting innocent civilians, who had attacked her, he would not sink to their level.

"You were born," he growled out, "That alone is enough. Now scurry home to your rat nest lest you feel a lifetime's worth of hate for your wretched kind fall upon you!"

Without waiting for a response, he whirled his black cloak and vanished, leaving her shaking from fear and fury, truly fed up with the prejudice directed toward her people though at least this masked stranger had his reasons while most just hated her for her dark skin and hair. She scurried off, meeting in front of one of the many entrances to her hidden home with a long, thin figure before both vanished into the night. He watched from the shadows, having followed the girl, staying even after the taller figure turned to look at him, knowing there was one lurking in the shadows watching them, but even his night vision could not make out the features of the wiry form who'd met with the girl. He almost felt guilty, having allowed his dislike of her nomadic people to come before all else, but he could not forget what they'd done to him. Granted it was not the Gypsies who'd locked him in a cage, but the _gajo_ they allowed to travel with them, Javert, who became his keeper, but it was they who'd mocked him, torn his mask from his face when all he'd wanted was some food. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind as he recalled that night, he could hear some woman telling those mocking him to leave him be and give him some food, overshadowed by the torment he'd suffered. Then the girl who'd twisted her ankle and threatened to tell her tribe he'd abducted and violated her though a 13-year-old child was hardly capable of such an act, a slap to his face after he'd taken the time to dress her injury. But he did not forget their annual sojourns to Paris as the weather turned cold and snow became imminent when they would journey to the French city to seek shelter in its underbelly to wait out the winter months that could easily claim many of their number in the cold or to starvation.

He remembered it, venturing through the dark tunnels, skeletons leering from the darkness, mocking him for daring to resemble their skulls while living a life they no longer had, starting when some of those skeletons had moved and surrounded them. Skull-heads were removed to reveal more Gypsies, guards who disguised themselves to catch intruders unawares, a number escorting them to a larger chamber while the rest returned to their posts. A huge open chamber, filled with light and colors, tents and wagons scattered throughout like an underground village, there was even a scaffolding set up toward the entrance, nooses hanging from the gallows ready for any unwelcome visitor unfortunate enough to be caught. Smaller fires were scattered about, a large communal fire in the center, chickens here and there as well as some sheep and a number of horses, a permanent settlement of Gypsies in the bowels of Paris that provided them with a safe haven, secret and hidden from the world. They'd been brought before the leader of the tribe that lived there throughout the year, a long lean Gypsy who despite being barely five and half feet in height had an air of command about him. His skin was dark though not as dark as much of his brethren, a warm tanned tone, his features angular with narrow shoulders and jaw, a pointed nose and large black eyes, a pointed black goatee adorning his jawline. Black hair hung just above his shoulders, the gold hoop in his left ear perpetually swinging as he moved, long thin fingers and hands gesturing with every word, his long legs moving as he shifted his weight from foot to another or shifted one foot in front of the other as he spoke. Everything about this man was long and thin, angular, restless and forever moving, expressive and even then he'd had the impression that this man's lean figure was not due to starvation, that even well-fed he'd have been slim. Those large black eyes had locked with the boy's own ice-blue orbs peering through the bars of his cage as he'd been rolled past as the group headed to settle themselves in some corner of this underground metropolis.

He'd sworn that he'd seen a brief flash of pity come over that angular, expressive face before the man returned to speaking with the one who led the group the boy had found himself an unwilling part of. Javert had allowed him out to help set up tents and such, keeping a close eye on him, a coiled whip in hand for any trouble his little prize might decide to give though the boy hadn't entertained much thought of escape. Where would he go, surrounded by Gypsies and unwanted by his own mother, without knowing how to get out of these tunnels? He knew it would be foolish, he'd seen enough to know this place was a labyrinth, one tunnel looking like the next, one could easily be lost down here and never be found, never find a way out. He was returned to his cage, trying to find some rest on the cold uncomfortable wooden floor surrounded by metal bars, his throat dry and his stomach empty, his body aching from a previous beating when he was still fighting against being displayed as a freak. The only sounds he heard were the scurry of rats in some far off corner and Javert snoring as he slept off whatever booze he'd been drinking when the whisper of cloth and the subtle clink of metal caught his attention. He'd looked to see the wiry Romani man from earlier kneeling before his cage, tools in hand as he picked the lock, opening it as silently as he could and offering a hand to the child, an encouraging smile coming over his face when the boy eyed his hand dubiously. He'd weighed his options, unsure if the man was trying to help him escape from his little prison or planned to steal him away for himself, deciding that if it was the latter, this man would be knocking him out and dragging him by force. Hesitantly, he'd put his own thin hand in the Gypsy's and let the man pull him out and usher him to his own tent, a large structure of purple canvas, not as large as ones that might house a family but larger than most of those that served as home to one person.

He'd handed the boy a mask, the last one his mother had given him that Javert had taken away though he couldn't fathom how the man had nicked it, before putting in front of him a simple meal of bread and cheese and a small bunch of red grapes. He'd sat across from him after setting down two earthenware mugs of hot tea silently as the boy ate, minding his manners even though he was ravenous. The scrawny Gypsy said little more than a word at a time throughout this first meeting, focused on getting some food in a child as thin and wiry as he was who clearly hadn't eaten in some time before ushering him into his own simple bed of blankets and pillows. Before the boy realized how tired he was, he'd fallen asleep and his unlikely rescuer sauntered to the other side of the tent to what looked to be a loosely hanging cloth but what was actually a hammock for nights like this when someone needed his bed more than he did. Morning had come, rousing him with the sound of a violin playing sweet, sad notes, the boy rising from the bed to find the wiry Gypsy sitting towards the back of the tent, bow dancing slowly over the strings of his instrument. The boy had been surprised that he was not holding it in the downward position of the Gypsies as he'd seen the others hold a violin, but properly with it up to his shoulder and tucked to his chin. He liked the tune, it was sad and lonely but sweet and somehow comforting and he sat and watched, losing himself in the music as he watched those long fingers dance over the strings. The boy grew to quickly like this Gypsy who saw him and treated as an ordinary child much as his mother's childhood friend Mlle. Perrault did but without the fear she'd tried in vain to hide, who sought to protect him from Javert. He'd learned to play the violin from that Gypsy, perfected the technique of blending into the shadows from his guards as well as picking locks and his skills with knife and pick-pocketing. That wiry, lanky Gypsy became his friend and protector during the winter months when the tribe he traveled with stayed in Paris, someone he missed when they left in the spring, like the father he'd never known and for a few months, he could pretend he had a family.

Even as an adult, he remembered those days, longed to go back to the closest thing he'd ever had to home, acknowledged the kindness of that man, but he was an exception in thousands, the only exception he would ever make when it came to Gypsies. As he watched the pair vanish through the hidden door that he had no familiarity with, he found himself mildly shocked that the Court was still in use.


	2. Never Meant to Belong

Seated in a lair that was still being furnished and perfected, still technically under construction while being livable, he remembered the sad, lonely notes from long ago, was playing them on his own violin, writing them down on his sheet music, wanting to perfect the tune, embellish it. To him, simple as it was, the violin's notes were perfect already, but it felt as though something were missing, like the melody was incomplete. Having taken down the notes, he glanced at his recently acquired grand piano that had been no picnic to transport to his underground lair, smirking as he recalled that it was the subterranean home within what he knew now to be the old catacombs of the Parisian Gypsies that had first planted the seed. He wondered... taking up the sheet music he'd just written and placing it at the piano, he lifted the cover from the ivory keys, the violin's notes clear in his mind as he began to play a tune on the piano that complimented the one he'd heard long ago on a violin's strings, a sad melody speaking of loneliness, perhaps longing. Absorbed in the music and letting it carry him away, he paused only to take out blank sheet music to jot down the notes to precede the violin's part before jotting down those that would compliment and be played with them. Longing to hear the complete piece, doubting he ever would given it consisted of two instruments complimenting each other and unable to play the entirety by himself, he titled the piece "Never Meant to Belong," for that is what to him the music expressed, it was why he loved the piece so much. Setting to work composing other pieces that would consist mostly of piano and violins, he lost track of the time, the music flowing from his hand speaking of sadness and loneliness to longing for home, a place to belong, tunes that were sad and ones that were bittersweet. He lost track of time and it was nearing dusk before he became cognizant of a gnawing hunger and the fact that he'd meant to venture out for food for his supplies were running low and though he did not eat much and rarely more than once a day, he still needed food. So, donning his fedora and long velvet cloak, he stepped out to complete his task before the shops closed for the night when crowds and curious gazes would be minimal and shopkeepers, eager for one more sale, would be tired after their long day and less likely to ask questions.

She stood in the streets, eying sweets in the window of a local shop wishing that she could spare the funds to indulge herself momentarily, a worn, beaten hat in her hands full of coins and even a bit of paper currency. Shaking her head, she folded the hat around the money and tucked it into a satchel hanging over her shoulder beneath the once-thick cloak she wore, knowing she couldn't spare a cent and lacking her uncle's slight of hand to get away with stealing a small piece. These cold months were always harsh when people didn't want to linger too long to watch her uncle perform or listen to her sing and as a result, there was nearly always less money made. The aftermath of the war compounded matters, the economy poor and people losing jobs and income with few being willing to part with even the smallest denomination of coin. She reluctantly continued on her way, humming a song softly to keep herself company in the growing quiet of the city under the fearful regime of the Third Republic, softly singing as she continued on towards Notre Dame. Not far from the sweet shop, a cloaked figure left a different shop, pausing as his sensitive ears picked up the strains of a female voice singing, the voice sweet albeit untrained.

"_Dreams to dream  
>In the dark of the night<br>When the world goes wrong,  
>I can still make it right.<br>I can see so far in my dreams,  
>I will follow my dreams<br>Until they come true."_

Compelled, he followed that voice through the darkening streets, feeling a burning need to know who this was with such a voice, to see the face that accompanied that voice, find this mystery singer._  
><em>

"_Come with me,  
>You will see what I mean.<br>There's a world inside  
>No one else ever sees.<br>You will go so far in my dreams!_  
><em>Somewhere in my dreams<br>Your dreams will come true."_

She kept singing as she walked across the nearly empty square in front of Notre Dame even as he kept following this voice he heard through the streets, hurrying after lest the voice get away before he could sate his curiosity._  
><em>

"_There is a star,  
>Waiting to guide us.<br>Shining inside us  
>When we close our eyes!"<em>

__Her voice rose in volume, passion and soul in the words, lost in the music she created, not caring who heard or who may be bothered, unaware of the figure following triumphantly as he spied the silhouette issuing that sound, spurred on by the passion in that voice. A sweet alto, yes, he could hear it clear enough now, one capable of some soprano notes, perhaps a mezzo-soprano even, overlapping both soprano and alto.

_"Don't let go!  
>If you stay close to me,<br>In my dreams tonight  
>You will see what I see.<br>Dreams to dream  
>As near as can be,<br>Inside you and me,  
>They always come true."<em>

She stopped, turning to gaze up at Notre Dame for a few moments before she continued her journey home, glad to see it had escaped destruction during the Franco-Prussian War, suddenly getting the feeling someone was watching. She turned quickly, a familiar cloaked figure standing not a few feet from her, keeping to the lengthening shadows of twilight, a growl of dismay escaping from him as he laid eyes on the owner of the voice he'd been following.

"You again," he growled.

"Oh, yes, because it's such a pleasure to run into you of all people," she retorted, "Not that I don't appreciate your help, but I had really hoped I wouldn't be running into you again."

"I warned you last time, _mademoiselle_," he replied, "You may not be so lucky this time. I've no patience to suffer fools."

"Well, that's one thing we have in common," she snapped, arms crossing over her chest, "But I'm no fool."

"I would beg to differ, girl," he said, "For here you are wandering the streets alone nearing dark. It is improper for a young woman to be alone on the streets at this hour without an escort."

"Don't know if you've noticed, pal," she smirked, "But I'm hardly a proper lady. So you can drop the niceties."

If she'd had something to throw at him, or proper aim for that matter, she would have, but at least that heavenly voice wasn't twisted in hatred the way it had been a few nights ago.

"So because a woman isn't a proper lady, she should not be treated as such?" he asked, "I beg to differ for I was raised better than that. A woman should be treated as such no matter what her station in life."

Now that he could get a proper look at her, she wasn't bad to look at, she wasn't as thin as women of the day considered fashionable nor was she really fat, she possessed a full curving figure with an ideal hourglass shape.

"You're apparently eating well enough for one of the lowest caste," he remarked.

"What?" she asked before catching his meaning, "Oh, you mean this," she grabbed at her side, surprisingly unaffected by what others may have perceived as an insult, "Not really, my body just doesn't know how to let go of the fat."

"You are not insulted?" he quirked an eyebrow, inadvertently drawing closer to her.

"Should I be?" she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Not necessarily," he answered, "Other women might have been."

"Other women are vain and obsessed with being thin, I don't care enough to watch what I eat. I'd rather have a little more meat on me than a growling stomach," she paused, "Besides, doesn't seem to matter how much or how little I eat or move, my body stays the same shape and size. I'm not most women."

"This I've noticed. Why are you walking about at such an hour with no escort?"

"Heading home after performing on the streets for coins. Why? Are you offering?"

He gave a rather undignified snort, "Hardly."

She held back a giggle at the sound he'd emitted, it had seemed out of place from the air of grace, dignity, and propriety that seemed to surround him. He was an enigma with those yellowish eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness, the wide-brimmed hat he kept low over his face and tilted to the right, and the long cloak shrouding his tall, broad form. From what she could see of him (which was little given the way he stuck to the shadows like a security blanket), his face was pale, the right seeming paler than the left, like it was almost white.

"Would you?" she asked.

He stared at her, eyes widening, as he pondered over the request that seemed ludicrous at first, but less as he mulled it over, wondering if she was jesting or truly asking him to, for he would hardly be a gentleman if he refused given the hour and what had nearly happened the other night.

"Thought as much," she shrugged, "A man of your calibre can hardly be seen around a guttersnipe like me."

"A man of my... calibre?" he wondered, not realizing he'd said that aloud until she answered.

"Well, yes, you know a gentleman, a man of breeding and wealth which you clearly are with your manners and expensive clothing."

He looked at himself as she spoke as if realizing for the first the expertly tailored evening suit that fit his tall form perfectly, the patent leather boots and white gloves he'd opted to wear to better handle foods for the thin satin allowed a better sense of touch as he'd checked over fruit to check firmness while being thick enough to hide the unnatural cold of his flesh. It was strange to hear someone call him a man of any kind, never mind one of calibre.

More to himself than to her, he muttered in a self-deprecating tone, "I am hardly a man."

She in comparison was dressed in a cloak that may have once been thick and warm, but was now worn and threadbare, her taupe boots of worn and cracked suede, deep purplish skirt that had obviously seen better days. Her black hair seemed well-enough groomed, bangs framing a full face with a tightly waving tendril hanging in front of each ear, the rest in waves behind her shoulders. She was paler than most Gypsies tended to be, her large almond eyes a deep blue, her slender nose curving up a bit at the tip, not enough that it looked piggy just so as to be a cute, endearing feature, her lips full and sensual. Aside from her curves, he saw that everything about her was small from her head to her wrists and hands to her feet, why she couldn't even be five feet in height, just under if his measurements were accurate.

"_Petite_," he muttered with a smirk.

Oh, how she wished she had something to throw at him, "_Pardonnez-moi_?"

"My dear," he gave a slight chuckle as she glowered, "You're just so very small."

That's it, she settled for one of her boots that she managed to pull off without falling over and threw it at the man in black in front of her, hitting his chest when she had aimed for his face. Normally, that would have irked him and roused his notorious temper, but as she stood there glaring at him with her arms crossed over her full bosom like a petulant child in but one boot, he couldn't help but chuckle more. And he knew he was done, this little Gypsy had endeared herself to him, not through her defiance of him or her strength, though those were to be admired, but because she was sort of adorable. Picking up her boot, he came close enough to hold it out to her, a humored smile on his face, holding back a laugh as she snatched it from him.

"What is your name, _mignonne_?" he asked, reaching a hand to brush his own black waves off his broad shoulder.

"Ravyn Trouillefou," she replied, struggling to put on her boot without falling over.

"Trouillefou?" he paused, the name striking a familiar chord, "I know that name."

"Well, if you've been around Paris, then maybe because of my uncle," she replied, sitting herself on the ground and relinquishing her hold on her hat of coins, "That or Hugo's stupid book."

"You uncle?" his visible black brow shot up.

"He's pretty well known around Paris," she explained, "Either as a performer or a thief, depends on if you're civilian or _gendarmes_. Name's Clopin."

An image flashed to his mind of a lanky Gypsy playing a sorrowful tune on a violin, the closest thing he'd had to father before his trip to Rome where he met Giovanni, the one who protected him during those winter months in this city. And there it was, the reason he knew the name: Clopin Trouillefou. So this girl was his niece, so perhaps he could make an exception for her, as if he needed a reason beyond the warmth to her and the something about her that made her approachable, made him wish he could trust her, that he could be her friend. She glanced up at him, curious about his sudden silence, wondering why he hadn't noticed that she'd held a hand out to him for some help getting to her feet, seeing him staring off into the distance. The light from the rising moon shone on the unnatural pallor of the right side of his face and she realized the texture wasn't right and the color was far too pale, half of his mouth disappearing on that side. She gave his leg a whack, all she could reach from her level, his gaze turning back to her casting his face in shadow.

"Mind giving me a hand?" she asked, "Bad knee."

He started, staring at her briefly in wonder, hesitating before bending slightly to offer his hand which she gladly took and helped her to her feet.

"You've a bad knee?" he asked; she seemed much too young to have joint troubles.

"Well, not really bad," she explained, "Just hurts when I bend it and it can be really hard to get up sometimes. Always been like that."

"I see," he muttered.

"So," she said, looking up at him; lord, this man was tall! "Is that...?"

She lifted a hand to his right cheek, her fingers brushing it briefly before he hissed as though he'd been struck, his own hand coming to swat hers away as he retreated a few steps, that menacing glare from the other night on his face. It was brief, but it had been enough of a touch to know that what she felt wasn't skin.

"Don't!" he growled.

"It is, isn't it?" she asked, "Huh," she bent down to scoop up her hat, "So what's with the mask then?"

"It is none of your concern!" he snapped, that threatening glint in his eyes.

_'Like a cornered animal trying to protect himself_,' she thought, no longer feeling any fear of the man before her now that she understood that for some reason he had perceived a threat and his reaction was instinctive, '_But why?_'

"Fine," she shrugged, turning away with the intention of heading for home.

And with that, his anger had fled as quickly as it had come, leaving confusion in its wake at her apparent nonchalance, like the mask's presence mattered not a whit to her, like she was just dropping it. So rare was it for him to encounter such a reaction, or lack thereof, he wasn't quite sure what to do, people either became more curious and determined to solve the mystery or fled in fear for their lives in the face of his anger.

"Wait!" he called as she walked away, walking toward her when she stopped and turned.

"What?" she asked, a thin black brow quirked as she regarded him.

His eyes darted from one side to another; why _had_ he stopped her? Then it hit him as he cleared his throat in search of an answer.

"At this hour, I cannot allow a young lady to walk home unescorted," he replied as she eyed him dubiously.

With moonlight overhead, she could see the ghostly pale color of his eyes, not yellow as they'd appeared, rather that had been an effect of the dim light reflecting from his eyes, they were in reality an icy blue color and what she'd assumed were the shadows was now clearly black waving tresses over his shoulder shimmering in the faint light. She wondered what he hid beneath his white mask, the left side being well chiseled and proportioned as to be strikingly handsome, his lips thick and sensual but decidedly masculine. Even cloaked in black, he was clearly broad, but now with the cloak somewhat open and the moonlight shining on his crisp white dress shirt she could see his shoulders were broad but he was long and thin, torso tapering to a narrow waist and immaculate black trousers. She'd scrutinized him, letting her eyes wash over an otherwise flawless form, wondering if she dared take him up on his offer, she certainly didn't want a repeat of what had happened the other night.

"I wouldn't be much of gentleman if I allowed you to walk home alone," he pressed, wondering why he was adamant on the matter when he usually preferred being left alone, "Or perhaps you think me a scoundrel. _Petite_, if I had some intention of forcing myself on you I would have done it the other night after dispatching those ruffians or much earlier when you took no notice of my presence."

"Nothing like that," she smiled, "You'd never do that, you're too gentle."

_'My dear, if you only knew'_, he thought, "You should be fleeing from me. A naïve child like you should not be in the presence of a monster like me. You know not the danger you put yourself in by trusting me."

"A monster, huh?" she asked, "A monster would have left those ruffians to have their way with me or would have killed me as well. I saw enough that night to know you're dangerous and that you've probably killed before. But you haven't hurt me yet and I'm trusting you not to, so don't betray that and don't make me regret it. Now, I'd be flattered to have such a handsome gentleman as yourself escort me home since you seem so insistent."

"Handsome?" he gave a humorless laugh, "I? This wretch before you is anything but!"

"Fine, if that's what you want to tell yourself," she shrugged, growing irritated with him, "But from what I can see, you are a handsome devil."

She could understand not being able to perceive yourself as being attractive, she certainly didn't find herself to be any kind of looker, so she was just as guilty but she was getting fed up with his self-deprecation, couldn't he just take a compliment?

"Now, me on the other hand," she started.

"You?" he questioned, "What, you think you are ugly? Nonsense! You're... cute."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "You know, it sucks-"

"Such language from a young woman!"

"-being called 'cute' when I'm going for sexy."

He sighed, seeing her growing annoyance, though if it was at his poor attempt at a compliment or his insistence and following hesitance to escort her he wasn't sure, and understanding it, whatever the reason (he wasn't an easy person to deal with).

"Come," he said, moving a hand as though to put it on her back though it hovered scant inches away, "Let us get you home, it's growing quite cold."

She still wasn't sure it was a good idea given the fact that their hideaway was a secret, but the man beside her, enigma that he was, was a stunning specimen and difficult as he'd been she kind of liked his company. Surely there was some place in the area where she could safely part from him before continuing her trek home without revealing the entrance to the Gypsies' hideaway. They walked in silence, crossing a bridge over the Seine on the other side of _Ile de la Cite _from where they'd started, he keeping a slower pace than he would've preferred so she could lead the way and so she didn't have to jog to keep up with his longer stride. She was quite small with shorter legs so surely it must be trying for her to keep up with those taller than her, especially those as tall as Erik was and he usually towered over most of the male population, a fact which served all too well an already imposing figure. She stopped after a ways, deciding this was a good enough area to part as home wasn't much farther but far enough from the hidden entrance, and he stopped beside her.

"Home isn't far from here," she said, "I can make it the rest of the way myself. Thanks."

"I do not mind walking you to your door," he replied.

"Oh no, that's all right," she insisted, "Judging by the way you keep to the shadows and the hat you keep tilted to hide the mask, and the mask for that matter, you don't like to be seen."

"Or perhaps," he pressed, "you do not wish to be seen with me. Speaking in the streets to a masked figure with relatively few around to notice is one thing, being seen by friends or family with him on your doorstep is quite another."

"It's nothing like that at all," she answered, hands on her hips, "I'm safe enough from here, so good night, _monsieur_."

"You've no need to fear," he called as she turned and began walking away, "I already know where the entrance to your Court is," she stopped, her form rigid, "You are a Gypsy, I am well aware of where they hide in this city as well as the location of the main entrance to it."

She turned to look at him, "You know?"

"I've been there a few times," he nodded, drawing closer, "When I was a child the tribe that kept me as a freak came here during the winter, seeking shelter within the notorious Court of Miracles. I also know we are being watched as we speak, this close to the cemetery the crypt lies in, of course there is a guard or two keeping watch. It is curious that Hugo was familiar with the concept of this Court of yours, but it was apparent he knew nothing about it from the descriptions in his book. I offer you a choice, _mademoiselle_: permit me to escort the rest of the way or we may part since I doubt those watching would allow anyone to accost you."

"You might as well escort me the rest of the way," she shrugged, "You've come this far and depending on who was posted tonight, they might not be any better than those scoundrels the other night."

"There are those among your own kind that would do such harm to you? Don't you people have certain rules and customs in place to prevent such things?"

"Not everyone in the Court is of Romani blood, Hugo got that much right."

So the pair continued on, coming to the rusting gates of the old cemetery that housed the crypt where the entrance to the Gypsies' home lay, her escort assisting here in pushing the slab aside enough for her to slip in.

"Thanks..." she stopped, staring at him as she realized something, "What's your name anyway?"

"My name?"

"You have one don't you? I gave you mine, it's usually polite to offer yours in turn. I believe it's called an introduction."

He hesitated a few moments, "Erik," he bowed with a sweep of his cloak, "My name is Erik."

"Just Erik?"

"Just Erik."

"Is that with a 'k' or a 'c'?"

He smirked, "Erik with a 'k'."

"Good, just the way I like it. _Bon nuit_ then, Erik with a 'k'."

"_A bientot_, _mignonne_," he replied and there it was, the endearment he would always call her, for from then on, nothing else would do, and it stuck.

With a nod, he was gone, swallowed by the shadows, silently as though he was never there.


	3. Going Home

Time wore on and somehow, even though they'd never agreed to it, it became a nightly habit for the Gypsy girl and her masked guardian to meet near the Rue Scribe so he could escort her and keep her safe from harm. She'd never felt safer than she did with her shadow beside her, a man who clearly shunned all but her, finally finding the camaraderie with a fellow outcast he'd once thought he might among the Gypsies. He was menacing and imposing, skilled at intimidating those around him, a nonverbal warning for those milling about to stay away with only his posture and a glance, she always got a strange sort of satisfaction in witnessing people scurry away. They were careful to avoid those that might be suspicious of them and arrest them as spies under the new regime, Erik's presence alone sometimes the only protection they needed if they came across a _gendarme_ here or there. They always talked, never about polite things like the weather or the state of things for, as Erik discovered, he wasn't the only one of them that had trouble making small talk. Rather they discussed any number of things from music and architecture (he might as well have been speaking something other than French for all Ravyn could make of it) to the lamentable nature of mankind. Sometimes he did most of the talking, surprising himself because he'd never considered himself a talkative person, as she listened, enjoying the velvety caress of that heavenly voice on her senses and learning some new things in the process. He enjoyed their discussions, amazed at the girl's depth and knowledge and wisdom, he even welcomed her less-than-polished manners, it was always a welcome change to speak frankly. It even became regular for him to have a treat waiting in hand for her when they met up for their twilight strolls, anyone watching might make the mistake that they were courting, sometimes a croissant or some other pastry, sometimes a few candies and an occasional rose.

Over time, he could no longer consider her a mere acquaintance or nightly companion, someone to talk to other than Garnier, he was forced to recognize that she had become his friend and he was growing to trust her as much as he could trust another person. He always looked forward to twilight when he would meet with her, sometimes she would be there waiting for him, softly singing to herself as she paced, others he was left waiting for her. She was a welcome intrusion during these troubled times into his solitary existence, she made him smile and sometimes even laugh, though he was quite frequently the one making her laugh with his sparkling wit and sarcasm. He found quickly enough that she was equally as sarcastic and responded to his in kind, that she was funnier when she wasn't trying, but she was of quick wit and resourceful. What he enjoyed most was her smile for it was the kind that lit up the room, it was like sunshine, even though she had her own periods when she was withdrawn and distant, depressed for unknown reasons, and could be passive-aggressive and vindictive. There were occasions when he would inadvertently insult her, often blaming his own lack of social grace rather than her being oversensitive, and she would cease speaking to him for the night or if she became angry enough with him, fail to grace him with her presence the following night. He was prone to the same things if he were to be quite honest, but rarely did he respond to those moments in kind, seeking to discover what he'd done to upset her and set it right for fear of losing his friend. He'd already lost Nadir Khan, the man sent by the Shah to fetch him whom he became quite fond of as they'd traveled to Persia from Russia and after as he gave Erik an escape from the pressures put upon him by the Shah and the _khanum_. That man had even saved Erik's life when he'd become more threat than use to the Persian ruler, even though Erik had had no desire to save himself. He'd never forgive himself if he lost the girl whose very smile warmed his heart.

"Why are you always singing to yourself?" he'd asked one evening when he'd come to meet her.

"Oh," she hadn't realized he'd gotten there, but that might not have been her fault, he had a way of moving like a ghost, "Silence gets unnerving, I get nervous and it helps."

Yes, she was an odd one, a fit companion for the man who would become the Opera Ghost who was at least equally odd himself, perhaps that was why they felt strangely comfortable with each other. It helped that she never asked about the mask and he never wondered why she was always pacing while she waited for him, they simply accepted each other's quirks without question or comment and though they exchanged banter and insults (both knowing it was all in fun), they were there to boost each other's ego. He'd never thought of himself as handsome even though he'd taken to wearing a mask that covered only the deformed side of his face shortly before they met, almost as though it never occurred to him that the unmarred, normal side was pleasing to look at, but she always insisted he was.

"You know," she remarked one night, "I should be glad only half your face is good-looking."

"Why?" he asked, wary of the answer.

"Well, I don't have to worry about beating off other women with a stick," she replied, "This way, I have you all to myself. Unless, of course you wear that mask because otherwise you would be too handsome for the human mind to comprehend."

He fell silent, allowing himself to pick up the pace and forcing her, as he'd predicted, to have to jog to keep up wit his considerably longer stride, all good humor gone from him, his cloak billowing behind him, suddenly in a rush to complete his nightly errand and be done with it.

"Erik!" she called, practically running to catch up, "Wait up! My legs aren't as long yours, you know! Dammit, Erik! What the hell? C'mon, unlike you, my legs don't go for miles!"

Wait, what the hell did that mean? He came to an abrupt halt, making her thankful her shorter stride gave her time enough to keep from walking into him, and leveled a glare at her, one that was meant to send her running from him and would have if not for the hurt and sorrow in the blue depths.

"All the sadness of the world," she whispered.

"Do not speak of what you do not know!" he growled, "Were I so handsome, I would not be forced to hide this!"

He was about to remove the mask in his fury (how did she forget how quick his temper was?) to force her to face the truth and send her running from him in terror as so many had before, but she reached up and pulled his hand from his white mask to stop him.

"Afraid to face the truth, _mademoiselle_?" he gave a wicked grin, truly starting to worry her.

"No," she replied, "Trust me, I'm very curious about what's under that mask, but you don't want me to see it, you don't like anyone seeing it. You wanna keep it hidden, I'm just trying to respect that. I was joking, Erik, I'm aware that there's probably some terrible scar or something you're hiding, not a super-attractive face. Men that attractive flaunt it and they're asses for it. But I get it: no joking about the face. Line drawn."

His anger dissipated at that point; others would have stayed their hand and let him tear away the mask so that their curiosity would be sated, but she was respecting his privacy and his wishes even when he was too angry to care.

"Can you not take jokes?" she asked, seeing he'd calmed down, "Or do you just not know when people are kidding with you? Which is interesting given how sarcastic you can be. Maybe we should call it a night, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Don't," he got out as she began walking away, "Don't go. My deepest apologies, I am not used to someone trying to 'kid' about that rather than mock. Most, if they do not run in terror, laugh and call me names," '_before the beatings start_,' he added silently, "Monster, demon, devil, corpse, Devil's child... they see my curse as something to ridicule."

"It never gets any easier, does it?" she asked, the look on her face reflecting the pain on his own, "The names, no matter how many times you hear them they still hurt. They're wounds time can never heal and repetition never dulls the pain."

She reached up to put a hand to his unmasked cheek and rather than pulling away as he once would and usually did, he leaned his head into it, pressing his own hand to hers, eyes closing as he relished the feel of someone willingly touch him out of kindness.

"Would you really want me all to yourself?" he asked when they started walking again.

"Sure," she replied, "I don't like sharing. Call me selfish."

"Aren't we all?" he responded, "We are just friends, though."

She pursed her lips, wondering why that remark hurt more than it should, trying to hide that stab of pain going through her.

"Nevertheless," she sighed, "I don't like sharing my friends' attentions. What is that mask made of anyway? It's cold."

"This particular one is porcelain," he answered, "I have others, the one I wore when we met was of white leather."

"I'd love to see your collection of masks," she got out.

"You're joking, yes?" he asked before he got worked over harmless fun... again.

"Yes, Erik, I'm joking," she smiled, amazed at the naivete one as brilliant as him possessed.

"What did that mean?" he glanced at her.

"What did what mean?" she quirked a brow in confusion.

"My legs go for miles?"

"Your legs, they're really long, they go for miles. You're like Nonc, mostly arms and legs and all long and skinny, but while he's wiry, you're at least broad-shouldered and chest...ed... Never mind."

It took him time, but eventually he got used to her playful needling and joking and learned to tell when she was just joking with him, that it was all in good nature and just gentle, harmless teasing he could brush off and was not meant to take to heart. He came to understand she tended to do the same thing, realizing that they were as much the same as they were different and how nice it was to have a friend who shared common attributes, could understand to some extent what he'd lived with his entire life. That was one thing Nadir could never do, the differences between the two men were somehow what made them friends, the Persian's misplaced desire to help and protect Erik, his acceptance cemented their friendship, but they'd never shared what he shared with Ravyn. As much time as she spent telling him that he was indeed handsome, he spent telling her she was quite a pretty little thing, potentially beautiful with the right clothing and carefully applied make-up, a remark that earned him a surprisingly painful punch to his arm. Unlike his friendship with Nadir, what he had with her taught him that sometimes such a bond was a fine art and the lines that could sometimes be crossed and other times could not, for him that line being his face and for her, her overall appearance.

"Your face can't be that bad," she commented once.

"Please," he scoffed, "Notre Dame has gargoyles not half as ugly as me."

"It probably has some twice as ugly," she returned.

"I would not be out of place on her walls leering at passersby," he said.

She could just picture him sitting on some ledge, glaring at people with the scarred right side of his face turned toward them, his black cloak spilling around him like bat wings.

"Sure you would," she replied, "Unlike them, you're not made of stone."

"My heart is."

"Number one: beg to differ. Number two: that's your heart, not the rest of you. Least you're skinny."

"You're not fat."

"Erik, I jiggle."

"You're a mature woman, parts of your are meant to."

"Not the parts I'm talking about and that was rather lewd, I'm shocked at you."

"I've seen fatter."

"I've seen thinner!"

"Have you seen opera singers?"

"Have you seen women of high society my age?"

"Please, that is why man invented corsets, damnable torture devices."

"For you or for them?"

He snorted, "As if I've ever had occasion to try and remove one. For them, it's a wonder they can breathe."

"That's why I don't wear one, I like my air, thanks. And for that I'm fat."

"Pigs are fatter."

"Gee, thanks, that just makes me feel so much better," she put her hand in her face to hide her smirk, "You're killing me, Erik."

"_Mignonne_, if I were killing you, you'd be dead before you knew it."

"I swear, if there ever comes day when you choke me to death," she looked up at him, "It won't be with that rope of yours, it'll be because I'm laughing too hard."

He offered a smile showing his dazzling white teeth at that, glad his wit was coming in handy for entertaining someone other than himself.

"Hey Erik," she warned, "Your arrogance is showing."

"What's wrong with that?" he asked.

"I don't respond well to arrogance, I feel the need to bruise it and knock 'em down a few pegs."

Oh yeah, he learned rather quickly that any time she felt he was getting too full of himself and proud of his skills, she'd take it upon herself to bruise his ego and bring him back down to earth and she was getting to know him well enough to hit him where it would hurt. Sometimes all it took was a simple, "Face!" and he'd shut up pretty quickly, humbled and sheepish as he nursed his wounded ego, unfortunately her ego never got bad enough for him to return the favor. Any time she got it in her head that she was better than one person or another, a muttered, "No, no you're not," to herself beat him to the punch; curse her humility and meager self-esteem.

Weeks turned to moths and eventually those months stretched into a year or so as construction on the opera house began again, society as a whole slowly recovering from the shock of the war and new government. While he never ventured into her Court of Miracles, he came to make Ravyn welcome in the subterranean home he'd made for himself in the fifth cellar of the opera as their bond grew stronger and deeper and while he saw her as his one friend, she saw him as her best friend among the few she had. His speech was always formal and proper though it was rare he ever called her _mademoiselle_ and when he did, it was a warning he was growing irritated or that she was pushing too far, but thankfully, he had dispensed with formalities toward her. As nice as their strolls were, it was always a welcome respite to have a place to sit and talk over tea or coffee, perhaps even a glass of wine and bite to eat. As the Opera Populaire opened and Erik established himself as the resident ghost, she was still very welcome and little bothered by his methods of blackmail, extortion, and other questionable acts having seen what he himself had put into keeping the building whole while construction had ceased. Intimidating as he was, she found he could be quite generous with the "salary"of 20,000 francs he received every month as he treated her to the same treats he always had, but also surprising her with an occasional article of much needed clothing or anything else she may need. Often all she did was mention something in passing or as an offhand comment, noting how worn her cloak was or tear in a faded skirt, and upon her next visit, he would have something to replace the item with for her. Much as she hated to receive such tokens from him since she had little means to reciprocate, she hated to deprive him of the pleasure since he seemed to delight in spoiling her as much as he delighted in spoiling the cream-and-brown feline he'd come upon and taken in, his precious little Ayesha.

"Nonsense, _mignonne_," he assured her when she once told him he needn't buy her things as she could never repay him, "To see you smile is worth every sou. Each day you call me your friend, you repay me. It is I that is in your debt."

To him, her friendship was more than he could ever hope to repay and far more precious than the small sums he paid to procure the items he gave her, that gift she gave him everyday was more than enough, a fact she couldn't hope to understand for even with a few other friends beside him, she had more than he did.

When the time came for the opera house to open, a triumph Charles Garnier wished Erik could publicly share in, and auditions were held to begin building the cast, Erik invited Ravyn to sit and observe with him in Box Five. Such a task would be tedious and potentially grating on the nerves as there were bound to be some who were talentless hacks who thought they had such a gift and he thought perhaps some company might make it more tolerable. Indeed, he was right and this tedious chore became positively entertaining with her along to talk between auditions and all the more so with her wisecracks and quips during some of the more grating auditions.

"Oh, make it stop," she uttered during one.

"My poor ears," Erik returned.

"This is just too painful," she put a hand to her, "Oh, honey, you cannot hit that note. Neither can I, but at least I know it."

"I think I'd prefer the rack to this torture," he got out after a snort at her remark, "But with the proper training, _petite_, I'm sure you could."

"Don't go there," she replied.

Admittedly, he did have an ulterior motive for asking her here, although he had wished for her company, he had also hoped to persuade her to audition herself for though she wasn't prima donna material, he longed to see her on stage instead of on street corners. He felt she could make a decent opera singer under his direction, he had even tried previously to persuade her to let him train her to bring her voice to its fullest potential, but so far she wasn't biting. Their banter continued throughout the auditions, one of her next remarks nearly making him spit out the wine he was sipping, resulting in him choking on it instead.

"I've heard cats caterwauling in the middle of the night better than this," she whispered in his ear.

His coughing and sputtering, which he struggled to keep low enough so no one below them could hear, turned into muffled chuckles, Erik bent nearly double in an attempt to smother his laughter.

"Next time," she leaned over so she was level with him, "Bring Ayesha so she can audition, maybe she could be a chorus girl."

Much as loved his precious Siamese, her breed indeed had a rather obnoxious meow and his sweet little girl was no exception and on more than one occasion he'd found himself pulling a pillow over his head to block out her calls as he tried to sleep.

"And our next contestant is..." Ravyn remarked having straightened while Erik remained bent in his seat trying to contain his mirth, "A hippo?"

He looked and there on stage was a rather large woman, Carlotta something, he missed her last name, Italian and strutting on the stage like she owned it.

"I've seen peacocks that strut less," he remarked, wiping away a tear from laughing as he had been and regaining his composure.

"If she were bobbing her head, I'd swear she was a giant chicken," his companion muttered, "By the way, who is that woman in black with the cane?"

"Madame Giry," he replied, trying to block out Carlotta's audition, "The ballet mistress."

She had been among the first hired at the newly opened opera house, a former ballerina herself whose dancing career ended due to an injury with a young daughter who showed some talent herself. The woman had happened upon Erik one night when he'd been walking along the catwalks and some noise or other he had inadvertently made, or perhaps the swaying of the catwalk, had alerted her to his presence. In an attempt to scare her off, he had leaped from his perch, landing cat-like in the shadows before emerging from them and revealing himself to her, but she had stood her ground without fear even as he drew himself to his full imposing height, lifting her head and placing both hands on her cane. She'd recognized him from some years ago when he was held in a cage against his will without a mask, forced to perform for his keepers, a horrible reminder of his childhood among the Gypsies, but this had been far worse. At least Javert had allowed him some small measure of freedom and allowed him out of his cage once he made it clear he was not going to run, he'd been a child with nowhere to go back then and no means to support himself. Those that had taken him later had taken a grown man with knowledge and skills to earn his own keep and money enough so he would never again be reduced to showing his face as part of a performance. They'd heard him playing in a cafe, willing to offer him a position in their carnival, an offer he declined, but upon seeing his mask, wondered what it hid and followed with the intent to pull it from his face. Perhaps he was a nobleman's son, escaping to find some solace in forbidden music, the mask there to protect his identity, they could capture him and hold him for ransom. They accosted him, catching him unawares, a rare feat, and tore away the mask to reveal the deformed flesh it hid and recognized the money they could fetch by having him displayed in their sideshow. Again, their offer was declined, and, determined not to let their prize escape, they'd knocked him out and locked him in a cage, dosing him with laudanum while they smuggled him out of town just in case someone was looking for him.

When Madame Giry, a younger woman then and not yet widowed, he'd been their captive for two years, allowed out of his cage only to relieve himself, a vicious cut to his leg down to the bone to prevent him from escaping, forced to sing, to play his music, always unmasked. They'd kept a collar around his throat, tight enough to restrict his ability to speak, though it was loosened for performances, beat him to assert their dominance over him. He'd long since grown accustomed to the stares, the screams, the horror on the faces of those that beheld him, but he took note of her because there was none of that on her face, only pity for this poor deformed creature before her, kept in a cage, malnourished with bruises and scars visible where his bare flesh was not covered and even some through the thin material of his shirt. He'd stopped performing, returning her gaze, making it clear to her the awareness and intelligence in his eyes, that this was no poor simpleton she beheld, his keeper beating him when he refused to continue. No one moved to help him though he was beaten severely for all to see, he wasn't sure if she did for she was out of his line of sight, but he heard her yelling and begging for the man to stop. That night, he was beaten more, this time not just with the cane used on him earlier but a whip that tore through his flimsy clothing, he could still hear that woman pleading for him in his mind, and somehow he found the strength to fight back. He'd turned as the whip came down, catching hold of it with his hand, the length wrapping around his forearm and biting into his flesh, pulled it toward him, his tormentor crashing to the floor. Erik had pounced on him, the whip still in his hands, and pulled it around the bastard's throat, his slight weight enough to keep the man pinned while he positioned his body to keep him from finding leverage to pull himself up.

He all but rejoiced in the familiar feel of that life in his hands, slowly draining out of him, eventually replacing the whip with his forearm and rising to his knees while keeping tight hold on his victim. He wallowed in the satisfaction of slowly killing the man that had abducted him and forced him back into a place in life, within his very self, where he was helpless. He wasn't sure if he'd ever so enjoyed taking a life as much as he had enjoyed taking that one, letting the body fall when the light had gone from his eyes, struggling to his feet, finding a blanket and his mask, his now-scarred right leg struggling to support him. He'd limped to the bastard's horse after gathering some provisions and money, even that familiar bottle of laudanum, pulled himself astride the beast and rode into the night. He did his best to return to the life he'd had before he was taken, returning to the hidden place he'd been camped where his belongings and fortune had been stowed away and continued his journey to his childhood home and eventually to Paris. He'd been unsure what action to take when the woman who had pitied him came upon him in the opera house, harming her was out of the question for despite his dislike of being pitied, she had touched him in a way, cared when no one else did and saw him for something other than a monster. Whether she knew it or not, he was indebted to her for waking up some forgotten part of him that helped him find the strength to escape, so what a relief it was when she swore to keep his secret and help him however she could to make up for her lack of action then. She should have done something, she'd said, fetched the authorities perhaps or at least found a way to help him escape, she'd even asked his forgiveness for not doing something. He hadn't even needed to resort to any sort of blackmail to keep her silent, her conscience did that for him, so he had accepted her words, though he felt compelled to tell her he did not blame her. To himself, he vowed to watch out for the little ballet rats the woman would be in charge of in exchange for her keeping her silence about what she had seen. Patrons of the arts could be fickle creatures, even vile ones, and at least some of the girls may need someone protecting them from unwelcome advances when the ballet mistress was not around.


	4. Soundscape to Ardor

Much to Erik's chagrin, La Carlotta became the Opera Populaire's prima donna, a fact he would've pestered the manager Lefevre about had he heard any other voice worth replacing her with, but none of those selected were for anything more than chorus girls. Their male lead, a Signior Piangi, was not bad, though Erik wondered if he were only chosen at Carlotta's behest since there was clearly more than a little something between them. To further irritate him, Ravyn had steadfastly refused to audition, oh, but wouldn't she dearly love to sing on stage instead of street corners or taverns for some meager coins? Certainly, but she'd been equally certain she would only make a fool of herself, she had no idea what to sing and she certainly wasn't familiar with any opera and she stumbled over songs written in languages she didn't know and a good many operas were Italian or German. Erik had argued that's why she had him, that was why he would teach her, to familiarize her with the operas, the arias, and guide her through those written in something other than French. Why was he pushing this so hard, she'd wondered.

"Why?" he'd gasped, "Because! You've a gift and a gift such as yours should be nurtured, given wings with which to soar!"

"Erik," she enunciated his name slowly, making him sure she would have tacked on his last name if he'd had one, "You hate people. Why would you want to teach someone?"

"It's not someone, it's you!" he exclaimed, falling to his knees before her, taking one of her hands in both of his, "I do not hate you. If I were not so loathsome a creature, I would teach these rats to sing myself, but as I am I cannot. I would teach you, who does not fear me, who does not see me as the monster I am, but as your friend. Your voice is a precious gem, a diamond in the rough that needs only to cut and polished to perfection! Music is my passion, my life, and I would share it with someone. Why not you?"

"I'm better suited for a cabaret," she replied, "Or the Moulin Rouge, not opera! I am made to sing folk songs, not arias."

"You could be," he rose to sit beside her on his black leather couch, "Only let me teach you and you could be."

"Erik," she said, "Let someone else be your protege."

Oh, she would come to regret those words for God only knew how things would have turned out if she'd been bold enough, confident enough, to take his offer, for both of them.

In the mean time, things between them continued as they always had, though Erik, stubborn and passionate as he was, occasionally pushed the subject of instructing her, until she threatened to leave and never see him again. It was an empty threat, she could never refuse to see her best friend ever again, not when he made her feel so much less alone in the world, but Erik wouldn't take the chance of calling her bluff, he couldn't risk it. She became his regular companion to attend performances and since her usual clothes were not fit to be seen at the opera in and she couldn't possibly afford dresses that were, he kept a few gowns on hand for her in a spare bedroom in his house on the lake. She spent much of her free time with Erik, sometimes curled up on his couch with one of his books from his enviable library that he seemed to add to every week or with a commandeered sketchbook, sketching out doodles of her own with a lead pencil. There were companionable silences as he sat composing or drawing or painting while she found some way to occupy herself, perhaps sat on his piano as he played or beside him on the bench plinking random keys to skew his perfect melody or interrupting his flow with an impromptu rendition of "Hot Cross Buns." It was the only piece she could play, helped by the fact that the keys for it were all in a row and she delighted in interrupting the flow of his music with it, the annoyed groan he'd give and the way he'd let his head fall on the keys. She was ceaselessly entertained by him pulling his Phantom antics, his "Phantics" as she deemed them, struggling to hold back her giggles as she watched her sweet, gentle Erik trying to become this threatening and menacing Opera Ghost. More than once her muffled laughter had nearly made him lose his concentration when he was in Box Five throwing his voice to frighten the staff and cast of the opera house, failing to understand why she found those moments so highly amusing. If he were to be honest however, her laughter only encouraged him, made him want to stand on the railing of his box as he threw his voice to be everywhere, to show off for her. He still called her _mignonne_, it seemed to have become his pet name for her, if not that then it was _petite_ or even elf because, as he would teasingly remind her, she was so small, though she felt he was exaggerating.

There even came a day, as Erik sat at his piano composing, glanced over at Ravyn seated on his couch, her legs tucked under her, reading a book, his hands stopped on the keys, that a bold idea came to his mind and no sooner than it did, he was crossing the room to act on it. He sat beside her on the couch before repositioning himself and lowered his head to rest on her knees, the only indication that she'd noticed was her hand coming down to stroke his hair. He let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes and folding his hands over his stomach, a small smile gracing his malformed lips, letting himself enjoy this moment, having expected her to push him away or at least ask him what he thought he was doing. This girl never ceased to amaze him and truthfully, he never wanted her to, she was so warm and welcoming, is was no small wonder why he let himself trust her, why he had allowed her in and let her endear herself to him. Though he found himself wondering if she realized he was there or if she was so absorbed in her reading that she assumed it was Ayesha, who had likewise taken a liking to her, that had jumped on the couch and made herself at home on the girl's lap. It was always entertaining watching her with his cat, she'd told him she much preferred dogs, but being an animal-lover she cooed over his lovely little feline or pet her when she was in the mood for affection, Ravyn even spoke to Ayesha as if she were a person and would respond. She made him feel like a normal person instead of the monster he knew he was, even now she never asked why he wore his mask, never even questioned him about his past though he alluded to parts of it here and there, but she never asked for details.

"You never ask," he remarked, as he reclined on the couch with his head comfortably on her lap.

"About what?" she asked, never removing her eyes from her book.

"My mask," he replied, tilting his head back to look at her.

"I did once," she answered, eyes skimming over the page, "I learned my lesson."

"You once mentioned you had your suspicions," he pressed, raising himself up and resting his weight on his elbows.

She sighed, lowering the book and finally looking at him, "Look, Erik, ignorance is bliss. There are some things I'm happier just not knowing and the way you go on, I'm probably happier not knowing the full extent of what's under that mask. Besides, Nonc," a slang term he knew she used for her uncle Clopin derived from_ mon oncle_, "has this red scar running from above his right eyebrow to his cheek, over his eye, from a whip. He puts stage paint over it to hide it most of the time. People are vain and use any number of means to hide blemishes or unsightly marks. He hides it from himself and everyone else because of what that mark is to him. You wear a mask to hide whatever from the world because people have treated you poorly for it, hell, maybe to hide it from yourself."

"You think so?" he asked.

"I don't know about your bathroom," she answered, "But the only mirrors I've seen down here so far are in that spare room even though they're a luxury you can afford. I assume it's because you don't like mirrors. You never take that mask off even in the comfort of your own home where it's just you and me and I don't really care how presentable you are as long as you aren't strutting around in your birthday suit. I don't know if you walk around without it when I'm not here, but I can only figure that whatever's wrong with your face is so bad you don't want me to see it and you yourself can't bear to look at it. So I'm happier not knowing."

He sat, looking at her, wavering between hurt and anger at the perceived rejection, that she could only stand his presence so long as she never know what was beneath the mask, preparing to move away, perhaps even storm off.

"What you are telling me," he said in a low tone that was angry and hurt at the same time, "is that you can only stand my company so long as you never see, never know, what lies beneath my mask and can still think of me as a man."

"That's not even close," she differed, glaring at him, "You always jump to conclusions instead of just asking. Whatever you look like under there, frightens you, makes you uncomfortable and that makes me uncomfortable. You'd rather I not see and that's fine, that's for you to decide whether or not you want to trust me enough to show me. You're uncomfortable without your mask and the knowledge of what you look like without it and I feel that discomfort. Your face doesn't change who you are inside, it's not a reflection of who you truly are. Mask or no mask, you're still a man."

He was silent as he mulled over what she said, unaware that she'd been so acutely aware of his discomfort in regards to his face, but how could she not be when he called himself a monster and the way he said it made it clear he believed it?

"Besides," she remarked, eyes again on her book, "The mask adds to the intrigue, not like you need to be anymore of an enigma."

He laid back down with his head again in her lap, save now he rolled onto his side pressing his masked cheek to her leg, a hand coming up to rest on her thigh just above her knee, suddenly very much in need of comfort and physical contact, her hand again coming down to stroke his hair.

For once in his life, Erik felt as though he was truly happy in the home he'd made for himself beneath a building dedicated to music, his passion, his life, his soul, it was a perfect place for him to hide and with a better friend by his side than he could ask for. Ravyn was content visiting and staying Erik whenever she wanted for as long as she wished, his home was warm and comfortable, there was always some exotic incense lit, he was companionable and amiable enough now that she'd come to know him. He was passionate, loyal, and generous to her, never turning here away no matter what his mood, welcoming her to try and cheer him up if his mood was foul, her company was always welcome with him. It was a nice change, the others she counted as friends could only stand her for so long and when they'd had enough of her company told her as much and there were days when they didn't want her around at all. But Erik was always eager for her company, always happy to see her, he treated her as an equal even though she was a girl and quite a bit younger than he was. She'd grown quite fond of him and was coming to realize that it was probably more than that, but had to learn to be content to only ever be his friend because no matter what the mask hid, a man like him would never be romantically interested in a woman like her. She would've been content if things could have stayed as they were, it was not as though they would get better, but they could get worse and all good things must come to an end. She was aware that he had come to count Madame Giry as a friend, left tokens for her in his box, though not with the same frequency he offered such tokens to Ravyn, and that he met with a man he called Daroga at least once a week. He didn't indulge their company as he did Ravyn, so she never felt jealous or threatened by their presence in his life, but then came a day when he began talking about a new chorus girl who'd joined and befriended little Meg Giry.

Ravyn regretted her words to Erik about finding someone else to be his protege, never having thought he would, but the more he talked the more it seemed he had in the form of a naïve, childish Swedish orphan named Christine Daae, a name she came to curse. He began talking about her frequently with a starry-eyed look that made Ravyn want to barf, divulged to her his plan to become this Angel of Music Daae's father had promised to send her. Erik was bordering on obsession and the object of that obsession didn't even know he was real, was naïve enough to believe his claims, that he was the Angel of Music her father had promised, come to teach her to sing. There were days he sent Ravyn away so he could focus on his composition and his next lesson for Christine, her interruptions on his piano now annoying him enough that he would snap at her. The silence between them when she sat and read or drew while he composed were no longer companionable, but tense and filled with some longing for him to join her on the couch like he used to or read to her or add his own sketches to the page she was drawing on. As time went on and his obsession grew, she came to feel more alone than she ever had in her life even before Erik came along, like she'd never known the true meaning of loneliness until now when he paid less and less mind to her. He still invited her to join him in his box to watch the newest performance, but they no longer talked as they once did during the intermission or poke a bit of fun at those whose performance wasn't up to par, sharing some jokes at La Carlotta's expense. In fact the only time he said anything to her was to remark on Christine and how she's improved and wasn't she wonderful, how lovely her voice was, taking no notice of his friend's silence or lack of interest or how withdrawn she was becoming. She'd felt no animosity or jealousy toward Madame Giry or his Persian friend whose name she learned was Nadir Khan, but she felt nothing but bitter pangs of jealousy toward little Miss Daae, though she said nothing to Erik.

"Ravyn," he greeted her from his piano one day, not unusual in itself but the fact he didn't even look her way when she entered was, "Would you care to join me for the next opera? I would not mind procuring a new dress for you to wear."

"No thanks," she muttered.

"Very well, I'll make sure to-" he stopped as his brilliant brain finally processed her answer, "Wait, what?"

"Not this time, Erik," she repeated, her back to him as she swung her cloak over her shoulders.

He took note that it was actually one of his own cloaks, the one she'd absconded with and commandeered as her own, staring in shock after her as she left without a word of good-bye, failing to notice how hollow and sad her voice had been. How strange, she never turned down his invitation, oh well, he shrugged, thinking to himself that she being a Gypsy simply couldn't appreciate the brilliance of Christine's voice. Small wonder she always turned down his offers to teach her, she could never sing with Christine's passion. Ravyn hurried down the walk by the lake heading toward her normal entrance and exit on the Rue Scribe, taking little notice of the older dark-skinned man waiting and looking at his pocket watch.

"Miss Ravyn," he called as he saw her approach.

"Hm? Oh, Monsieur Khan," she said, stopping and finally noticing him.

He found it odd she'd called him _monsieur_, she usually didn't bother with such formalities, a friend of Erik's was a friend of hers, so he was usually just Nadir and she seemed so sad. He'd met her before, Erik had made it a point to introduce them so the bothersome Persian would not be alarmed by the comings and goings of the Gypsy girl. The two had met since and though Ravyn was normally reserved around him, this time she seemed unusually withdrawn and more reserved than the norm, she hadn't even offered her usual greeting and inquiry to his well-being.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, seeing the dull look of her eyes in the light of the lanterns they carried.

"Nothing," she quickly got out, "Erik's... just... I need to go."

She hurried around him, leaving him staring after her before turning his head in the direction she had come from, the direction he knew Erik's home lay in and, deciding Erik was late for their appointment, strode towards it. It didn't even take him long to find the cleverly hidden door, anyone else would have missed it, but Nadir had a sharp mind and eyes, he'd been the Daroga to the Shah of Persia, he wasn't just anyone, so he yanked the door open and entered Erik's home.

"Erik," he called, announcing his presence and spotting Erik at his piano.

"Daroga," the masked man replied, turning to look at his Persian friend, "You don't usually come in."

"You've never invited me," Nadir returned.

"There's a reason for that," he retorted, turning back to his music, "What is it, Daroga?"

"You're late," he stated simply.

"Hm? Oh, so I am," Erik glanced at his own pocket watch, "Well, you're here, you might as well have a seat. Would you care for some tea?"

"No, that's quite all right," Nadir sat on a divan off the side, "Erik... I saw Ravyn rushing away, she seemed quite upset."

"Can't imagine why," he scribbled some notes on his sheet music, "I invited her to the opera as always."

"So she will be attending?" the Persian pressed.

"No," his masked friend answered rather nonchalantly, "She declined."

"Does she usually?"

"No. I do believe this is the first time. No matter, I get rather tired of having to explain what's going on and who's who and whatnot. I do wonder what I was thinking bringing a Gypsy girl to the opera, it's rather beyond them, I suppose, and she simply cannot seem to appreciate Christine's voice."

Oh, Nadir knew all about Christine, he'd been asking around, heard about the girl's Angel of Music and surmised from what he had heard that Erik had taken advantage of the girl's innocence and sweet naivete to get her to trust him. He could not believe the words coming from Erik's mouth, he had always spoken so highly of the Gypsy girl, she'd been such a good friend to him, accepting him without question and without judgment, never asking about the mask.

"I cannot believe what I am hearing, Erik!" he exclaimed, "How could you say these things? You told me previously you did not mind explaining operas to her when she was confused, when they were in a language she did not know, that you enjoyed her company at performances!"

"Things change, Daroga," Erik uttered in a dark tone Nadir knew all too well meant he was in dangerous territory.

"So they do," he challenged, "I never thought you would be so callous as to toss the girl aside as you have."

"I have done no such thing!" he growled, standing and turning to face his friend so quickly his bench was thrown to the floor, "I have been busy instructing Christine, I don't have the time I did to indulge some Gypsy! I offered her the same opportunity, it is not my fault she did not take it! Why should I fritter away my valuable time on some damnable little Gypsy who did not have the courage, the passion, to accept my tutelage? Christine has passion she lacked and a better voice, she is worth far more of my time!"

"You have upset this poor girl you call some damnable Gypsy! This child who has been nothing but a friend to you! And for some ingenue who thinks you some angel sent by her departed father, what will you do when she learns the truth? Do you believe she will simply accept you?"

"I have misled her, but it was necessary to give her what she wants most, she will surely forgive and learn to love me."

"How could you be so blind, Erik? Mlle. Daae is an innocent child, she trusts you blindly, I doubt it will be as simple as you are fooling yourself into believing when the time comes. And for this, you cast away your dearest little friend. You should at least talk to her, she was terribly upset."

"Oh very well, Daroga! If it will shut you up, I will talk to her and you will see there is no reason to be concerned. She is a silly girl, they get upset over the simplest things."

"And Mlle. Daae is a mature woman?"

"I shall ignore that remark. Kindly take your leave, Daroga, you're giving me a headache."

Rising, Nadir took his leave, hardly pleased with the outcome of the conversation; he hadn't expected Erik to have become so hostile and callous, he'd half-expected the man to have been unaware of how upset he had made the girl, eager to make amends and discover what was the matter. Now, he wondered if he could trust Erik to do as he said he would, hoping his anger was nothing more than bravado, an attempt to hide his guilt and shame over having so treated his dear friend and not realizing he had hurt her terribly. Alas, such was not the case, he had every intention of keeping his word to Nadir, but he didn't see what he could possibly have done wrong to upset her this time and that damnable Persian going on like it was the first he'd ever upset Ravyn, he felt his anger justified. As for his words in regards to what happened when Christine discovered the truth, they were desperate hopes, but if he planned it carefully enough and executed those plans just so, perhaps they would become reality. In the mean time, there was nothing to do but wait until the next time Ravyn came to visit, she never stayed away long, and continue his work until then.


	5. On The Verge of Insanity

Ravyn stood on her normal street corner, counting her meager coins, and heaved a sigh; ever since this Daae business, her heart just hadn't been in her singing and her funds were suffering for it, a song was empty without passion and it wasn't near as wondrous to listen to. She glanced around, trying to spot her uncle's hat in the crowd to ask if they might head home soon, and when she glanced back at the hat in her hand, there was a red rose in it with a card of expensive parchment tied to it with a little black ribbon. She picked it up, recognizing Erik's elegant script, her heart fluttering in excitement as it had been a week since she'd last seen him when he'd told her she could not be there that night for after Christine's triumph in _Hannibal_, the time had come to bring her to his lair, and eagerly read it.

_Petite,_

_It has been brought to my attention that you have not been yourself of late. We must talk, please come back to me as soon as you read this._

_Erik_

Brought to his attention, so someone had to point it to him... it was Nadir wasn't it? No mention of how she'd been away for so long, no indication of how badly he needed to see her, it fact it came across as rather cold and formal. Nonetheless, she tightened her (his) cloak about her shoulders and hurried to meet him, hoping that she was mistaken of the tone the note conveyed, that he was perhaps just hiding behind the formality how badly he missed her. Entering his lair, she did not immediately see him, but a clink of china caught her attention and she turned to see him entering the main room of his home from the kitchen, a tray bearing a teapot and two teacups in his hands.

"Ravyn," he nodded to her moving to set the tray on his coffee table, "Please, have a seat."

This did not bode well, he was as coldly formal as his note, he hadn't been so formal with her since they first met, it wasn't like him at all, he was usually much more expressive toward her, warmer even. So she sat after removing the cloak and laying it on the couch, nodding when he asked if she wanted tea, watching him prepare it the way she liked it before sitting across from her with his own cup.

"There are a couple of reasons I asked you here," he began after taking a sip of tea.

"So it wasn't because you missed me?" she asked, setting her own cup down.

"My dear, I have much to do," he replied, "I haven't the time to miss you. Indeed I sometimes enjoy your company," Sometimes? Since when? "But I simply do not have as much time with which to indulge you any longer. Henceforth, I would appreciate it if you would not intrude uninvited. I will send you word when I've some moments to spare so that I may enjoy your company."

"Fine, Erik," she conceded, "Was there anything else?"

"Well of course there is," he replied, "Why did you not accept my invitation to go to the opera? You always join me."

"I just haven't felt much like going," she answered, glancing down at her rapidly cooling tea.

"Ravyn," he sighed, "What is the matter?"

"It's just-" she paused, never having felt so uncomfortable talking to Erik as she did now, she used to be able to talk to him about anything, "Just this gentleman friend of mine."

"Oh?" he set his own cup down, eyes narrowing, wondering who this male friend was that had upset his dear little Ravyn, unhappy with the thought that she had some man in her life besides Erik, "What has he done to upset you?"

"Well," she pressed, wondering over the sudden iciness in his tone, "He recently met this other girl that he's been preoccupied with. We've been friends for awhile and he never seemed to mind my company before, but since he met her I've felt like a bother to him and he just hasn't had the time for me."

"Well, he is a fool. If your friendship is at all important to him, then he should make the time, otherwise bid him _adieu_ and be done with him, he is not worth your time."

She could've slapped her hand to her head; was he truly so dense or were all men like that?

"Just... be done with him?"

"Did I stutter, dear girl? Send him packing! If he is not willing to make time for you, then he is hardly worth your time and every moment you spend on him is a moment wasted. Give him a piece of your mind, if you like, but be done with him."

"Then I suppose this is good-bye, Erik, because apparently you are no longer worth my time."

"Precisely," Wait, what? "_Pardonnez-moi_?"

She'd risen from her seat, anger and pain clear in her eyes, the most emotion he'd seen on her face in days now that he thought about it, and now he rose as well, hardly believing what he was hearing.

"Did I stutter, dear Phantom?" she mocked.

"This is concerning me?" he asked.

"Wow, you're quick," she snapped, "You've devoted all your time to Christine, she's all you ever talk about, you never have time for me anymore!"

"How selfish can you be, Ravyn?" he growled, "You've no idea the time and effort it takes to teach someone to sing! Do not be angry with me when I gave you the same choice! Have I not devoted enough of my time to you in the past? Must you demand more of it now? I am her teacher, there is more to my life than you, ungrateful child!"

"You dare call me a child?" she replied, "Christine is a mere girl, and a gullible one at that! She's not right for you!"

"Do not dare insult my Christine! She is no younger than you!"

"But she lacks what we know of the world! She has never had to experience it the way we have, lived our lives! She is but a naïve child, she lacks the experience to handle certain things, things she isn't ready to face!"

"Like what?"

"Like you, for one! She would flee in terror if she ever saw your face!"

"You have never seen my face!"

"No, but I have never asked to, I have respected your wishes to never remove your mask. Do you think she would do the same?"

"Of course! Christine would never betray me!"

"You're deluding yourself, Erik."

"You are jealous, little Gypsy, that's what this is. She is all that you are not. She has passion you lack, she possesses far more beauty than you could ever hope to no matter how you pretty yourself up. She carries herself with poise, possesses a far more pleasing form, and she is no pathetic little guttersnipe!"

The downside of being thick as thieves and letting people know you as well as you know yourself is how badly they can hurt you when they've mind to and at last Erik had a chance to get back at Ravyn for all the times she'd knocked his delicate ego down to size. And what a chance it was, except she had always been playful in her criticisms, wanting to prevent him from letting his arrogance get the best of him, the only thing his poison words were meant to do was hurt.

"Erik," she got it in a shaky breath, eyes shimmering with tears she fought to keep back, her voice barely more than whisper, "You go too far. Keep it up and I will leave and never come back."

"My dear," he gave a cold smirk, "I call your bluff. A thousand times before you have said that and yet you have always come back. You have called wolf too many times before, I will no longer fall for those empty words. Chubby little Gypsy, you are jealous of my angel."

He expected her to crumble before him, to fall to her knees before him and beg his forgiveness now that he had called her bluff and exposed her empty threat for what it was, but instead she slowly shook her head, letting out a shuddering sob, and turned and run from his home.

"Ravyn!" he gasped, "_Mignonne_!"

He stopped himself as he made to run after her; no, he wouldn't, he had called her bluff, now he would wait until she came back as she always did and he would graciously forgive her because he could not bear to lose her if he didn't. It didn't even enter his mind that this time, there would be no next time, that this was truly the last time. He was confident she would eventually return even if it was to only retrieve the cloak she'd left behind, but he would speak with her when she did for surely by then she will have cooled enough to see reason.

Ravyn had no intention of every going back for that cloak, she'd left it behind on purpose, she couldn't bear to have it any longer, not after Erik's hateful words, after he had started treating her the way her other friends did. As she raced through the tunnels and then the streets heading back to the Court, the last time she'd seen him prior to this came to her mind unbidden.

"You cannot be here tonight, Ravyn," he'd said from where he sat at his piano.

"Why not?" she'd asked.

"For tonight Christine will be singing the part of Elissa," he'd replied, "All my time and devotion to this moment, she will triumph at last! It will be time for her to know the truth of her angel, I will bring her here. You must be gone by then."

That was why she had refused to go to the opera with him when he'd asked later as though he had never disclosed to her his plans, she would've had to walk home by herself at an ungodly hour without her escort there to protect her. After all this and knowing how she felt for him, she could never see him again, this man he'd suddenly become was not her friend, so sad and lonely who'd been so grateful for her friendship and eager for her company. The path he was on now could only end badly, how could he be so blind to the possibilities? Was he truly in love with this girl or was it an obsession, a dangerous infatuation that could only bring him to ruin? She did not know and as much as she cared about what became of Erik, she would not be there to see him destroy it all, he'd become complacent with her friendship, in the knowledge that she'd always be there, and he abused that. Not this time, if he wanted to pursue this delusion, so be it, but she would not be there for him to lean on when it came crashing down around him. He would have to face that harsh reality himself.

Time wore on, days turned to weeks and weeks into months and still she had not come back, Erik threw himself into his work on his masterpiece, teetering on the brink of madness, driving his devoted infatuation into a dangerous obsession. The night of Christine's triumph, her childhood sweetheart, now a grown man, had seen her on stage and reinserted himself into her life, approaching her afterward and complicating Erik's meticulous plans. As if that had not been troubling enough, the night of _Il_ _Muto_, during the intermission while they were preparing for Christine to take Carlotta's place as the Countess, she and her boy, Raoul being his cursed name, had professed their love for each other on the roof. The entire opera had suffered for that when he sent the chandelier crashing down on innocent bystanders who had no involvement in his vendetta, a feat he regretted later when his mind had cleared and sanity returned. He'd been dearly missing Ravyn before then, but after that he'd become desperate for her to come back, needing someone, needing her, to talk him through it, to pull him back from the brink. Didn't she know he needed her now? How badly he needed her? Where was she! Why hadn't she returned?

He'd set out, rose and pleading note in hand, knowing she must surely be on her usual corner with her hat of coins that he could slip the rose and note into as he walked past, but when he came to her normal place, he was dismayed to find she wasn't there. A simple bribe to a nearby Gypsy boy sent him scurrying to the Court of Miracles with the note and flower and he'd returned to his lair to wait, pacing the floor, heart racing as he desperately watched for her to walk through his door. She never did. To distract himself from this newest heartache, he'd returned to his masterpiece as he hovered precariously on the brink of madness, the darkness in his soul threatening to consume him. He'd sent several notes over the last weeks to her after failing to find her on the streets, each note more desperate than the last, pleading her to come back to him, begging her forgiveness. Surely she could not abandon him, not her, not his Ravyn, she had never abandoned him before, Lord, what had he done? If she would only come back, he would tell her how sorry he was, he would do anything she wished of him, just please come back and pull him from the darkness that was about to consume him. But no matter how heartfelt his notes, no matter how many he sent, she never came, though he did one day find several of the roses he'd sent crushed in the street by the Rue Scribe entrance to his lair. Had he truly gone too far this time that she had abandoned him?


	6. To Where You Are

One last note inviting, practically begging, her to attend the Masquerade with him Erik sent to the Court only to be met with silence and from there his reason was entirely lost, he'd been abandoned and the darkness of his soul consumed him. He went to the Masquerade thrusting his completed opera _Don Juan Trumphant_ at the managers before tearing the engagement ring from Christine's neck, the Vicomte concocting a plan to at last capture the Phantom of the Opera and end his reign. The end result of Erik's obsession was more terrible than Ravyn could imagine, Christine being terribly worried, wavering between her desire for this matter with the Phantom to end and not wanting to betray her teacher a second time while Erik's sanity and life hung in the balance. Thus far, Nadir could only stand and watch helplessly as his friend was finally swallowed up by the madness that had always threatened to consume him, Erik would not listen to him. He set out to meet with a Gypsy child, paying him to relay a message after the boy confirmed that Ravyn still resided in the city, hoping that she would agree to meet with him even if she would no longer see Erik. His message had been to meet him before Notre Dame at a designated time, so he waited where he'd indicated at the appropriate time to see if she came.

"What is it, Nadir?" her voice came from behind him.

He turned to look at her, her hair had been cut so it was one length, her bangs tucked behind her ears, one sleeve of her loose white blouse hung off her shoulder, the hem of her deep red skirt frayed, the sparkle of her eyes subdued, her face devoid of any emotion.

"Thank you for meeting with me," he bowed in greeting.

"Just get to the point," she snapped, "I have things to do."

"You have been noticeably absent from your corner," he remarked.

"Would've made it too easy for him to find me," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"Where do you sing now?" he pressed.

"I don't sing anymore, so what did you ask me here for?"

"You must help him, Erik has been driven to madness, reason is lost to him."

"Not my problem."

"Please, _mademoiselle_, you must! Only you can pull him back from this darkness! Only you can save him from himself before this goes any further!"

"No, Nadir, he's made his bed now he has to lie in it. I'm sorry, but he's on his own this time."

And with that, she walked away and disappeared into the crowd, afraid of where this whole mess would end.

After weeks of preparation, the debut of the Phantom's opera came, armed officers scattered through the auditorium, prepared for when the Opera Ghost appeared, but the Vicomte's plan failed as a voice that was decidedly not Piangi's issued from the man's costume to sing with Christine. The figure was revealed to be the Phantom himself, not where he was supposed to be at all, and she tore his mask from his face for all to see before the pair disappeared and Piangi's body was discovered. Both law enforcement and a mob comprised of those that worked in the opera house and had grown tired of his reign pursued the Phantom and his captive down below while Raoul begged Madame Giry for her aid. Afraid for both Christine and Erik if he was not stopped, the ballet mistress told him how to get down there, warning him about the Punjab Lasso, wanting to save Erik from himself as much as Christine, she was keeping to her promise to aid him by aiding the Vicomte. Raoul reached the Phantom's lair before the mob did courtesy of Madame Giry's instructions, finding himself nearly killed in his efforts to save Christine, freed when her kiss broke the Opera Ghost of his madness. He released them, his heart breaking in the process, and from there his fate was unknown to the couple who reached the surface where Madame Giry, her daughter, and the Persian waited.

"Where is he?" Nadir asked them.

"Still down below last we saw of him," Raoul answered.

"But the mob..." Christine got out, afraid of what would happen to her teacher if they found him.

"I will go," Nadir turned to leave.

"They could kill you, _monsieur_," Raoul grabbed at his arm, "They're out for blood."

"I appreciate your concern, Vicomte," he replied, "But I must take that chance."

"You risk your life for a murderer and a madman?" the viscount gaped at him.

"Erik is many things, friend," the Persian said calmly, "Yes, he has killed, and this night he acted on his madness, but he is also a friend and to me worth trying to save from the mob and himself."

By the time Nadir reached the lair, it had been ransacked by the mob and judging by the blood spattering the floor as well as various sheets of music that been strewn about the floor and torn remnants of what was clearly his clothing, they'd found Erik. Yet there was no sign of his masked friend, perhaps he'd fled after the mob had left him for dead or perhaps he'd gotten free of them somehow and fled.

Some time ago, Erik had extended one of the tunnels below the opera to connect to the old catacombs, one of the lesser used tunnels that was lightly guarded, and it was along this passage he fled. Clopin had once drawn him a crude but effective map of the various tunnels that led to the Court, a map he'd memorized should a need like this ever arise, so he had safe place to flee to if he was ever found. Injured as he was, he moved as silently as he could, hoping to slip past any guards who may have been watching, the same reason he 'd come without a torch. He'd been unable to slip away before the mob caught him and they'd beaten him severely before the _Surete_ had arrived, using the distraction to his advantage to slip from the mob's grasp before he could be taken into custody. He'd even managed to take his mask before he slipped out, cursing himself for any number of stupid things he'd done since hearing Christine Daae's voice. After what seemed an eternity, he finally came to the large central chamber that was the heart of the Court of Miracles, the place bathed in darkness, an odd light here and there, but the whole place sleeping for the most part. He stumbled through, his left arm clutching his right to keep it as immobile as possible, unsure if it was broken, but not much caring at that moment as his current task seemed much more important. So many tents and wagons and caravans, he had no idea where to start looking for the person he sought, but as he came to the pit where the communal bonfire usually burned he was spared the trouble of having to think further as his eyes fell on a lone figure huddled beside it. He hoped, he silently prayed, and as he drew closer he sighed in relief that for once his prayers were answered and he lowered himself to the ground across from the solitary female form sitting there.

"Ravyn," he breathed, "Thank God..."

"You don't believe in God," she remarked.

"_Mignonne_, please," he begged, "Where have you been? I needed you..."

"I told you I wouldn't be coming back," she snapped.

"Something you've said many times before, but you always came back," he returned.

"You chose a lousy time to finally call my bluff," she retorted, "What are you doing here? Come to blame me for your turn of luck?"

"Not at all, _ma petite_," he let out a shuddering breath, "I should have listened, but I was obsessed. You were right, she betrayed me... twice."

"Fool me once, shame on you," Ravyn muttered.

"Please, Ravyn, forgive me. You proved your point, just come back to me! I need you."

"Fool me twice, Erik," she glared at him, "No. You're on your own."

"Ravyn, I beg of you! I'm sorry, so sorry, I said such horrible things to you, things I never should have, things I did not mean. I know I can never make up for it, but only forgive me and I shall try my damnedest. I love you, you were always there for me, no questions, just acceptance. I beg you, do not abandon me. You turned your back on me once, you had every right to, but do not do so now, I need help, I need you."

"Go to hell, Erik! I will not play second fiddle to your precious Christine and I won't be your second choice or your damn rebound!"

"No, Ravyn, no, none of that. You are my friend, that is all I wish of you."

"Forget it, Erik, go home."

"You are angry with me, you've every right to be, what I did after all you'd given me was unforgivable, I took it for granted. If you want me to go, I will go for now, but I ask you one thing, I've no right to, I know I've no right to, but please, _mignonne_, look in your heart and find it in you to forgive me. You are a far better person than I can ever hope to be, I know you are. For your sake, for mine, forgive me for what I've done."

Erik, by no small miracle, managed to make it home to his lair, expecting the mess the mob had left in their wake, the authorities waiting for him, but certainly not expecting Nadir waiting for him and most of the mess cleared.

"Nadir," he muttered, swaying on his feet before his aching body finally collapsed to the ground.

"Erik!" Nadir gasped, rushing to him.

He pulled one of Erik's arms around his neck and pulled him up, the man barely conscious and muttering to himself as Nadir guided him to his bedroom and laid him in his bed, before looking him over, removing the mask to see him fully. His once long black hair had been hacked off, his lip was split, most of his face bruised and lacerated having taken much of the damage, the deformities of the right made all the more grotesque by the bruising and swelling. He tore off Erik's shirt, his torso mottled blacks, blues, purples, even yellows and browns, an angry red welt about his neck evidence they'd nearly lynched him, perhaps with his own lasso, a knife wound to his side that narrowly missed piercing his lung. Nadir carefully prodded Erik's right arm, checking the bone, while Erik grimaced from the pain of it, a pained moan escaping his lips, moving his gaze to his shoulder and discovering the source of his pain: his shoulder had been dislocated. Throughout the remainder of the night, Nadir tended to Erik's wounds best he could, his deformed friend directing him when he wasn't sure what to do, Erik's scream of agony as he popped his shoulder back into place going right through him. Nadir had frankly been surprised at the minimal damage done to Erik's home and possessions, but supposed it was because the object of their wrath had been present and so spared his home while taking their revenge on him. It was likely only the timely intervention of the authorities that had saved Erik from further damage, but he was concerned that given the beating and bruising about his torso, there may be internal bleeding and Erik gave no indication of whether he suspected some or what to do if there was. Now, Erik slept soundly, his body and mind exhausted from the day's events and the turmoil of the past months, Nadir giving him an injection of morphine to help ease his pain before placing a cold, wet cloth on his brow for the mild fever that had developed.

It was strange how calm he'd been when Ravyn thought about it later, calmly pleading with her, his voice soft and sad, with no effort to use it to its full hypnotic capabilities to persuade her to do as he wished. It was a natural capability he'd always possessed, his study of ventriloquism had only taught him to perfect it and the best way to utilize it, but he hadn't even tried to use that skill against her. She'd seen him before, how angry he could become when he was denied what he wanted, how he'd yell and threaten to try and get his way, or unleash the full mesmerizing power of that heavenly voice. Yet when he'd come upon her in the Court, there was none of that, only soft, gentle pleading before he willingly took his leave. There hadn't been light enough to see him, the bonfire had been put out when most of the inhabitants had retired for the night and at the hour he'd appeared, only an odd few were still awake, the only light being a lone candle or lamp here and there. She vaguely wondered what had happened tonight that she knew would've been the debut of Erik's composition and normally she would have attended but given all that had and who the composition came to be dedicated to, she couldn't. Erik's voice had been so sad, an echo of her own pain, the pain she'd felt since he'd insulted her, perhaps that was why he hadn't tried any tricks, no tantrums, because he was simply too broken for it. He'd had his heart crushed and what he'd been through had taken the fight out of him, left him too emotionally drained and utterly exhausted, she knew what that was like.

In the coming days, Ravyn heard snippets of the aftermath of the Phantom's Opera, mixed reviews of his masterpiece, but especially the fate of those involved which was what concerned her the most. The Surete kept armed officers in the vicinity of the Opera Populaire to keep watch for the Opera Ghost everyone now knew was a horribly disfigured mortal man whose identity remained a secret, unsure if he had fled that night or if he was still somewhere within. They'd searched for him, but they lacked Erik's intimate knowledge of the tunnels and passages, succeeding in getting themselves lost and wandering in circles more than once, finding their way out when the rat-catcher directed them. Christine Daae had left Paris at least temporarily with her fiance _le Vicomte_ de Chagny, Piangi had not been killed as previously believed, merely rendered unconscious, and was recovering and all productions at the opera were suspended for the time being while matters were sorted out. It became well known that the mob that had gone hunting for the Phantom of the Opera had found him, that the man had been severely beaten by the time the authorities had caught up, but had slipped away. Ravyn wondered if that was before or after he had ventured to the Court, had he been injured when he's come to talk to her or had he been caught as he slipped back into the opera where the mob had been waiting? Despite her concern, she stayed away partly because she wasn't ready to face him or forgive him, though it seemed inevitable that she would, but mostly because of the armed officers hanging about, she didn't have Erik's stealth, they might catch her or follow her right to him. No, best to wait until the heat died down a bit for it surely would, they didn't have the manpower to keep officers posted there at all times indefinitely, there were other criminals in the city.

Days passed, Erik had no idea how many, he was losing track of time more than he used to and too soul-sick to care, long, graceful fingers tenderly caressing the keys of his piano, longing to play, to write, but inspiration had apparently fled with Christine. His words to her about making his song take flight, his music of the night being, he'd meant metaphorically, but apparently she had truly taken his music with her, leaving him with nothing. Part of him hated her for it, but another still loved her, though now it seemed that love was diminished from what it had been that had driven him to madness and acts of desperation. Were she to ever come back, he knew he would forgive her without her ever asking, but he would, could, no longer trust her with his heart, so precious and kind a woman, he wanted her friendship, but he was coming to realize that was all he wanted of her anymore. Depressing a key, the sound reverberating through the room, there was suddenly a ghost of a song on his lips as he began humming, a woman not Christine on his mind, a tune, a song he hadn't written, the words coming to him unbeckoned:

"_Who can say for certain?  
>Maybe you're still here.<br>I feel you all around me,  
>Your memory's so clear.<em>

_"Deep in the stillness,  
>I can hear you speak.<br>You're still an inspiration,  
>Can it be?<br>That you are mine,  
>Forever love<br>And you are watching over me from up above?"  
><em>

His heart lightened, fluttering in chest, as inspiration struck like a lightning bolt and, desperate to cling to those faint wisps of song on his lips, he let it spill forth,

"_Fly me up to where you are  
>Beyond the distant star!<br>I wish upon tonight  
>To see you smile<br>If only for awhile to know you're there.  
>A breath away's not far<br>To where you are."_

Yes, there it was, a chorus, a bittersweet smile on his face as he released the first words he'd sung since Christine left, the first music that had come to him since, but he knew this song was not for her, no, it was for another who'd touched his heart before she did.

"_Are you gently sleeping  
>Here inside my dream?<br>And isn't faith believing  
>All power can't be seen?<em>

_"As my heart holds you,  
>Just one beat away,<br>I cherish all you gave me everyday  
>'Cause you are my<br>Forever love  
>Watching me from up above.<em>

_"And I believe  
>That angels breathe,<br>And that love will live on and never leave!"_

One for whom his heart ached, whose company he sorely missed and need to help him mend his heart and soul form the pain Christine had left in her wake, whose visage was in his mind as he sang, this song was for her.

"_Fly me up to where you are  
>Beyond the distant star!<br>I wish upon tonight  
>To see you smile<br>If only for awhile to know you're there.  
>A breath away's not far<br>To where you are."  
><em>

A soft clapping came from the entrance to his lair, his cloak whirling around him as he turned sharply to see who dared intrude on his solitude, knowing it was not the one he hoped for, she would not have applauded, a gasp issuing form his lips when his eyes fell on his audience.

"Christine," he breathed, "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you, Angel," she replied.

"Erik," he corrected.

"What?" she looked at him.

"My name is Erik," he repeated, "I am no longer your angel, Christine. You should not be here."

"Erik," she breathed, "I needed to see you, to talk with you. I could not leave things as they were, not when I hurt you terribly."

"You need not apologize, angel," he uttered, "There is nothing to apologize for, not after what I did. It is I who should apologize."

"For what?" she drew closer, "For teaching me to sing, for guiding me, for allowing me to achieve my dream? You were there when no one else was, you were my friend and my teacher."

"Through deception, my dear, through lies," he argued, "I should not-"

"You did what you felt you must, An- Erik," that would take some getting used to, "After the life you have led, I can understand that now. Because of you, I am no longer some silly, naïve girl."

"Yes, because of me! Because I took advantage of your innocence to gain your trust! It was not right."

"Perhaps not. But nor was removing your mask-"

"Twice."

"Twice, yes, when you had trusted me not to."

"It is natural to be curious, I cannot hold that against you when so many before have done the same."

"The first time may have been forgivable, but the second? I cannot even say why I did it then in front of all those people."

"Christine, why have you come? You should be with your fiance."

"I've told you already, Erik, to apologize."

"You have done so, you could have sent a note to me, you know how to reach me. Yet here you are... still."

"You were my friend, Erik, perhaps against better judgment, I would not lose that. Yes, you deceived me, but you were a good friend and I know there is goodness in you. If you would forgive me-"

"Oh, Christine, you need hardly ask! I had already done so before you came."

"Then can we not again be friends?"

"It is more than I deserve."

"That song... it was beautiful. Did you write that... for me?"

"Not all in my life is about you, my dear. No, that was meant for someone else, someone who has shunned my company since I met you."

"So you wrote it some time ago, then?"

"No, it only just came to me."

"Have you sung since?"

"No nor have I composed anything since _Don Juan _Disastrous. That was the first piece since then."

"He-"

"She."

"She? Very well, she has not seen you since?"

"No, we had seen each other a few times since I began teaching you, it was after your success as Elissa that she began shunning my company."

"Oh, Erik, I am so very sorry! I did not know I came between you two, I feel simply awful!"

"It is no fault of yours, dear angel, the blame is solely mine. I became so focused on teaching you, I pushed her aside and made her insignificant. Where once I gave her as much of my time as she wished, I gave her none once I became your Angel. I sent her away, I have tried to reach out to her, but she will have nothing more to do with me. I said hateful things to her when she tried to tell me that I was neglecting her and she will no longer grace me with her presence."

"Perhaps I could be of help."

"You? Dear Christine, I do think she rather resents you for stealing me away. How do you expect to help?"

"A talk, one woman to another. You may not understand, but I certainly do."

"What makes you think I do not understand?"

"Oh, Erik. You call yourself a monster and you may have been cursed with that wretched face, but you are still a man and men simply do not understand these things."


End file.
